


Honey Hips

by BakerKeen



Series: Let Me Count the Ways [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunken Flirting, Frottage, Lapdance, M/M, Sexual Content, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4650132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerKeen/pseuds/BakerKeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock go to a strip club for a case. Sherlock gives a private performance back at 221B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John slowly sipped on a beer as he watched Sherlock charm the literal pants off an exotic dancer. Sherlock had thought he might have to audition as a dancer for their cover and had come in dressed head to toe in leather, looking breathtakingly gay. After setting one foot inside the club, they'd rushed to the restroom to shed the jacket and vest. "It's called Woody's, for the love of God!" he exclaimed, fussing with his hair to calm it down a bit. 

"I could talk to one of the strippers," John suggested. He'd tried to play it cool, but Sherlock's sharp eyes bore right through him. _Busted._

Smoothing a stubborn lock of hair into something resembling compliance, Sherlock turned from the mirror. "I feel quite certain that I'll have an easier time staying focused on the case with a naked woman in my lap, don't you?" John felt slightly abashed that his mind had slipped from the underage sex trafficking ring they were attempting to infiltrate. Sherlock shot him a withering look. "I daresay you'll get an eyeful regardless. Just focus on chatting up the bartender and don't get so distracted by breasts that you forget to watch my back." 

They had emerged from the bathroom and Sherlock murmured in his ear. "The bartender is bisexual; keep buying drinks and tip well." 

John smirked. "Drink lots and flirt. Honestly, that was already my plan for the evening." He stole a glance around the room. "I haven't been in a strip club in ages. God, they're all so _young_." His shoulders stiffened fractionally. "You don't think _these_ women are underage, do you?" 

Sherlock glanced around a few more times. "Just that one." He nodded toward a redhead whose long hair had been softly curled, spilling over impossibly perky breasts. She threw her head back to laugh at something the much-older man whose lap she occupied had said. John thought it was hard to tell her age with all the makeup. Sherlock cocked his head a bit. "Not much data to go on, but I think she's a runaway. She's trying to look older, so if this is where the trafficking is based I think it's a coincidence. The victims we've found have had their youthful looks exaggerated with pigtails, kneesocks, and such." John's stomach turned a bit at the thought. Suddenly, Sherlock paused. "Found the queen bee. Go flirt." 

Half an hour later, John took another long pull on his beer and glanced over at his boyfriend again. Sherlock still looked pretty gay, he thought, but possibly just because he knew him. He seemed to have tipped and leered enough to get the dancer to approach him. 

"Lucky bastard," said a voice behind him. John turned to see the bartender bringing him a cocktail. "Here, I've been working on a new drink. Tell me what you think." 

John smiled, holding eye contact just a moment longer than was really comfortable. "Ta!" He took a sip. This was a very bad idea; he'd already had two beers and adding a _wow very strong_ cocktail in under an hour was a recipe for disaster. But Sherlock had told him to drink and flirt, and he didn't like to do a job halfway. "That's my flatmate," he admitted, nodding over to where Sherlock was _holy Christ, inviting a stripper onto his lap for a dance._ John took a big swig of his drink to soothe his suddenly-dry throat, and felt a dizzy rush that was only partly due to the drink. "God, I hope he's not being a total prat." 

The bartender chuckled. "I hope so, too. Kylie takes kickboxing classes in her spare time." John squinted and he could see it, almost, in the way she moved her shoulders, that she could fight. "She's selective, though. Your friend must be either charming or a great tipper." 

John coughed on his drink again as Sherlock reached up to grab the dancer's breast. "Oh, shit, he's gonna get bounced." 

His drink was replaced, but John didn't touch it yet; he was already starting to stand to go to Sherlock's aid. The bartender chuckled again. "He'll be fine. Light touching is allowed if the dancers are cool with it. She's not signaling the bouncers yet." 

John stirred the drink in front of him and tore his eyes away from Sherlock's hand squeezing a round, bouncing breast before he became too visibly aroused. "Are you trying to get me drunk?" he teased, taking a tentative sip. A quiet voice in the back of his mind told him that this drink was a bad idea, but his commitment to listening to it had disappeared with the last glass. The bartender -- Chris, according to his nametag -- had wavy blond hair and honey-brown eyes that were full of good humor and mischief. 

Chris leaned in to murmur conspiratorially in his ear. "They won't let you near the stage after having this many. I couldn't let you abandon me to face all the creeps alone." His warm breath tickled John's ear and he shivered a bit. 

Giggling, -- Christ, he really was getting quite drunk -- John wagged a finger. "You're a devil. I guess I'll just have to take my fun right here, then, eh?" He ran a finger absently around the rim of his glass and smirked when Chris's Adam's apple bobbed in response. "The drink is fantastic, luckily." Chris's eyes watched John's tongue cushion the glass as he took another sip. _Gotcha_. 

Another customer approached the bar and John took the opportunity to check in on Sherlock. He had let go of the dancer's breast and now had his hands on her frankly luscious arse. John licked his lips, swaying a bit on his stool as he reached back for his drink. _I should feel a little jealous of this,_ he thought distantly. But John knew he was enjoying the dance more than Sherlock was. In fact, it suddenly occurred to John that the dance might be partially for his own benefit. Kylie leaned in, rubbing her breasts against Sherlock's chest and gyrating expertly against him. Sherlock leaned forward in response to her, murmuring in her ear for a moment. Now the bouncers were watching carefully, thinking of advancing, but Kylie dismissed them with a subtle shake of her head.

"Your friend is pushing it." 

John didn't turn away. Sherlock was squeezing her tits again, then running his fingers down to play at the straps of her thong. "He's good at that." Kylie let her hair fall like a curtain around their faces, and John's throat went dry again, his imagination unable to settle on whether it would rather picture being Kylie, drawing Sherlock's hungry eyes and predatory arse squeezing, or Sherlock, allowed to be a bit handsy with a gorgeous stripper. It was hot as hell either way. Chris cleared his throat behind him and John remembered that he was supposed to be drinking and flirting. Knocking back the rest of his drink, he spun back to face his mark. "Sorry," he said with a rueful smile. "I'm being nearly as rude as him."

Chris laughed warmly, shrugging a bit. "It's why you're here, right?" 

There was definitely a good reason for him to be here that had nothing to do with the scene behind him or the honey-colored eyes in front of him. John cast about to think of something clever to ask Chris that was remotely pertinent to the case. "All that touching seems a bit dodgy. Owners don't mind?" 

Wiping the bar in front of John, Chris cracked a big smile. "Nah. So long as the dancers are selling the lapdances, they don't much care what else goes on. You want another drink?" John nodded, no longer feeling any compunction about his level of inebriation. A few seconds later, the implication of what Chris had said smacked John in the face, so when he set another drink in front of him, he asked in as casual a voice as he could muster. "So the owners don't mind a little ... side business?" 

Chris covered up his surprise and disappointment pretty quickly, considering all the innuendo John had been throwing at him. "You want me to recommend a dancer for a more satisfying private session?" 

John coughed on his drink. "God, no, I've set my sights a bit higher for tonight." Chris flushed deliciously. "I was just gossiping. _Filthy_ habit." 

Chris leaned in. "Yes, I bet that mouth gets you into all sorts of trouble." 

Wagging his eyebrows a bit, John said, "Oh, exactly the opposite. My mouth seems to make people forget all sorts of things, including why they're mad at me. Quite useful for getting out of trouble, this mouth." 

Suddenly, a large hand clapped on John's shoulder, causing him to startle and draw his fingers away from where they'd been inching toward the bartender's. John twirled around -- yes, twirled -- to see Sherlock's quirked eyebrow. "Hate to interrupt your fun, but we're done. Unless you're staying, of course." 

_Fuck._ Sherlock probably looked perfectly pleasant to anyone else, but John could see the irritation in his eyes. He was going to pay for this in some not-so-subtle way. He fumbled with some bills before dropping far too many of them on the bar. "Thanks for the drinks and conversation," he mumbled to Chris, turning to leave before he'd have to explain.


	2. Chapter 2

After he practically carried John into the taxi, Sherlock huffed and sneered. "You must've been getting some exciting intel if you felt it necessary to bypass flirting and go straight to seducing."

John knew he should be harnessing a cogent defense but found that his brain was moving much too slowly for that. "He told me the owners turn a blind eye to prostitution. Offered to set me up with a private session with the right stripper." It was lame and irrelevant and even in his state, John knew it. 

The look Sherlock shot John could only be described as withering. "Cracked the case wide open, haven't you?" John searched Sherlock's expression, expecting to see jealousy or hurt or even amusement. Sherlock turned away imperiously. 

John bristled. "Oh, this is fucking rich. _You're_ angry at _me_? I'm not the one who pawed at a stripper tonight." 

Sherlock turned back toward John, jaw dropping in indignation in spite of himself. "Oh, _please_. You got so wrapped up in flirting with you completely forgot the case. I had to continue the dance until she gave me the information I needed. Apparently on Tuesday nights they cater to a more selective clientele." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and leaned in. "Besides, you weren't upset about the touching, you were aroused. As I knew you would be." 

John laughed. "Well, you can hardly tell me to drink lots and flirt with a gorgeous bartender, then put on a show like that and expect me to maintain any sort of subtlety." John turned puppy dog eyes on his boyfriend. "I mean, did you see him? It was like chatting up a bisexual, liquor-dispensing Captain America." Sherlock was trying hard not to smile. _Gotcha._ John dropped his voice, although not enough to spare the cabbie. "I was going to embarrass myself if I kept watching you with her. God, I was jealous of both of you." 

Sherlock snorted. "The moment you had Captain America's attention, you forgot I existed." John opened his mouth to protest and Sherlock cut him off. "Please. One more drink and you'd have brought him back to our flat and not thought there was a thing wrong with it." 

The thought went straight to his cock and John was too drunk to hide the evidence. 

Sherlock shook his head in exasperation. "You are unbelievable. NO, we are not going back to invite him." 

John petted Sherlock's leg pathetically. "Come onnnn, don't be angry. I'm very suggestible after ... 3 drinks." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Nice try, John. Double that." 

John sidled up against Sherlock and murmured into his ear. "You could always punish me." A faint smile played at Sherlock's lips and John's heart leapt. He was just starting to slide a sloppy tongue against his ear when the car stopped and the cabbie announced their arrival in a somewhat relieved voice. 

Sherlock raced ahead of John, who only had to shush himself twice on the trip up the stairs. When he finally made it inside, he found his chair turned to sit directly in front of the fireplace, and Sherlock fiddling with John's MP3 player. "Sit," he commanded as he turned away. A swift techno beat pulsed through the speakers as John plopped somewhat heavily on the chair. 

And then suddenly, John forgot how to breathe, because Sherlock was dancing toward him, swinging his hips to the beat and holding intense eye contact as he freed the buttons at the top of the shirt. 

John had never really considered putting the words "Sherlock" and "dance" in the same sentence before. Certainly he was athletic, and he had a certain poise, even in repose, that suggested he could be quite graceful. But it came as a shock to find out that somewhere along the line, Sherlock had decided that dancing was not too frivolous a pursuit to spend his time on. 

Of course, Sherlock did nothing that he was not able to excel at, and dancing seemed to be no exception. He spun around cheekily, glancing over his shoulder at John as he wiggled his arse. Still thunderstruck (and quite drunk), John could do little more than stare rapturously at Sherlock's plump behind and attempt not to leave his mouth hanging open. When Sherlock turned to face time again, his shirt was entirely unbuttoned and he was shrugging it off his shoulders. 

Sherlock approached John then, dragging a lazy finger along his collarbone, then tracing it over his shoulder and across his back as he circled John's chair slowly. Once his finger reached John spine, he traced up, sending shivers through John. Then he slid his fingers into John's overgrown hair and _tugged_. 

The moan was that came out of John's mouth would have been embarrassing had he been sober. 

Sherlock slid finger around the other side and circled back to the front. Tossing his shirt to the floor, he crouched in front of John. Sherlock ran his hands up John's shins, pressing his knees apart gently before skimming up his thighs and finally coming to rest on the arms of the chair. John was already holding his breath when Sherlock slowly slithered up between his legs, face inches from John's now very attentive cock. 

John lifted his hips slightly but Sherlock moved out of range, sliding slowly up his body until his mouth was near his ear. "No touching," he admonished in that liquid sex voice of his. "What sort of establishment do you think this is?" 

John smirked and glanced down for a fraction of a second. " _Upstanding_ , of course."

Sherlock smirked and took a few steps backwards, running his fingers through his own hair. God, John wanted to yank on it. Sherlock did exactly that before sliding his palms down his chest and across the flat planes of his stomach to finger at his belt. 

The song changed, and Sherlock slowed down with it. Teasing the belt through the loops before snapping the leather loudly, he slowly pulled open the button and zipper of his leather trousers. His hands strayed then, rubbing his torso and neck again as he toed off his shoes and tossed them out of his way. John's pants were so tight that he felt like they were about to explode. Sherlock continue to dance hypnotically, slowly sliding his trousers down his legs. 

John was just thinking to himself that there was no sexy way to remove leather trousers when Sherlock knelt by his knees again. While his head was skimming along the edges John's thighs, he pulled off his socks and tugged on the legs of his pants to create some slack. He then slowly stood up, gently rubbing his face along John's torso while he shook his hips to slide them further down his thighs. He blew gently in John's ear, then reversed the motion until he was kneeling again. He repeated this one more time, blowing in the other ear, and then the trousers were off and _Mother of God, Sherlock is wearing a thong._

Sherlock retreated again, and began dancing in earnest. Or at least, John was pretty sure that's what was happening; his brain had short-circuited. He was highly attuned to a few things, though. First, Sherlock was more than halfway to erect already. Second, he was starting to sweat deliciously. Third, John desperately wanted to bite one of his arse cheeks. Fourth, if he didn't get to liberate his cock from his painfully tight trousers soon, he very well might die. 

Perhaps something of that last bit showed on his face, because Sherlock approached again, and finally began to lay hands on John. Not where he wanted them, of course, but he crawled on his lap, swatting hands away from his arse, and loosened several buttons on John's shirt. He slid his hands underneath, squeezing muscles and pinching his sensitive nipples. John arched and reached between them to stroke at Sherlock's hard length, and Sherlock quickly scooted off his lap. "No touching," he reminded John firmly. 

Distantly, John remembered that he was being punished for something. He tried to look contrite, but Sherlock seemed, if anything, slightly amused. He backed way off, shimmying his hips to show off his round, naked arse, and then lowered himself to the floor and crawled back over to John. 

John was going to die. "Please," he begged. Sherlock crawled up his body again, placing his knee against John's bollocks. John immediately started to rub against him, and Sherlock must have decided he'd been punished enough because he allowed it. He reached down and opened the front of John's trousers and pulled his cock through the slit in his pants so he was finally, mercifully free. 

"Tell me," Sherlock purred. "What was that bartender's name?" 

John's brain had turned to putty. "Who?" he asked, distractedly, scooting closer to Sherlock. 

"Exactly," Sherlock agreed, and sat with his knees on either side of John's legs. He arched back, letting his head fall parallel to John's knees before pulling himself back up and finally, _finally_ pumping his hips against John. 

"Fuuuuuck," John groaned, leaning his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. "You're amazing." He thrusted up, feeling the slick slide of satin against his cock. "If I grab your arse, are you going to move?" 

Sherlock grinned. "Cheeks are fine, but no funny business." 

John squeezed two handfuls and craned to watch. Suddenly, Sherlock was standing up. "Hey," John protested. "You said it was OK! No funny bu--oh Christ in heaven." Sherlock had turned around and pushed his rear end right up against John's lap, wiggling and swaying and -- there was no other word for it -- _twerking_. John let out a strangled noise from the back of his throat and canted his hips, rubbing himself between Sherlock's cheeks. He reached up to grab the lush cheeks in front of him, running a thumb under the string of his thong and murmuring. "Gonna come all over this pretty arse, paint it with my come, your knickers are going to be so filthy because this arse is _mine_." 

Sherlock stood up, spinning around and crawling back into John's lap, grinding up against him. "No," he corrected. "We're both going to paint my belly until there's come dripping all over both of us. It'll be all over your trousers and these knickers will be absolutely ruined but if you're a good boy, a very very good boy, a very very good _bad_ boy, I will wear them on our next case like a filthy little slut." 

Three, four, five more thrusts and John was coming so hard that it actually painted Sherlock's chest a little. The sight of it sent Sherlock over the edge and he went stiff and cried out as he soaked his knickers. Finally, Sherlock craned his neck down for a kiss as he rode out his orgasm. 

John kissed him sleepily. "No hands. You're incredible." 

Sherlock kissed him back. "Thought it would be an interesting experiment. I've never done it before." 

John brightened at that, being Sherlock's first anything. "I'd be up for replicating it," he offered. "For science, of course." Sherlock pulled back, and John realized he was probably horribly uncomfortable in his sticky satin underwear. "Take me to bed," he commanded, allowing Sherlock to pull him up to a standing position. 

"Shower," Sherlock corrected. "You smell like a bar and I'm a sticky mess. Steady now." 

They got in the shower together because Sherlock was convinced John was going to fall and break his neck in there. They rubbed shampoo into each other's hair and slipped soap over each other's bodies, and many sighs and giggles and kisses later, they were clean. As John tumbled into bed and Sherlock gracefully laid beside him, he asked the question that had been on his lips all evening. "Where did you learn to dance?" 

Sherlock's face pinked. "Truth?" 

"Of course." 

"I _love_ to dance. Always have. Mummy signed me up for lessons when I was 7 and I took them for years, until some of the other boys found out. It wasn't worth it anymore after that, but I kept going to dances when I could and dancing on my own. Then once I got to uni I went to a bunch of raves and refined the style you saw tonight." He paused thoughtfully. "If you tell Lestrade, I will be forced to do something dramatic." 

John laughed in horror at what rated as dramatic to Sherlock. "Secret's safe, love. Don't want anyone else seeing you anyway." John kissed him, squeezing his bum lightly. _This arse is mine._

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed it and/or have concrit, leave me some love. I'm a shameless comment hound. :)


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